Blindfold Game

JANUARY 19 GULF OF ALASKA

THEY WERE UNDER WAY again. From overheard conversations they deduced that the fuel filters on the freighter’s one engine had clogged up, leaving them adrift for almost forty-eight hours. Fang bore a grudging respect for Smith, who had maintained his own calm and order among the men during that time.

But in truth there had been little danger of the Star of Bali’s crew calling anyone for help. In the schedule-driven world of maritime shipping all that mattered was getting the goods to market on time. The last thing any shipowner wanted was a boarding by the U.S. Coast Guard, which would cause significant delay and who knew how many citations for safety and security violations requiring expensive legal action later on. The hired hands that captained most oceangoing vessels nowadays were well aware of this, and they would do everything in their power to avoid the official attention of authorities on shore.

Fang listened to the engine, which it seemed to him was still running a little rougher than it had before it quit. It was running, however, which was preferable to the alternative. The two days adrift had not been enjoyable, with the ship at the mercy of the heavy seas.

Fang turned his head to see that Smith was watching the digital readout on his GPS. Everyone else was watching him.

“How long?” Fang said, voicing the thought that was on everyone’s mind.

“Soon now.”

Fang looked around at the men, swinging in hammocks, huddled in sleeping bags. They’d run out of fuel for the stove and the lanterns the night before. This morning they’d eaten dry noodles for breakfast. Everyone looked as cold as he felt. He wondered how well everyone would be moving when Smith finally set the plan in motion. Although one benefit of the cold was that the smell was much less noticeable.

He wondered, not for the first time, what they were doing here, and rued, perhaps for the last time, the greed that had led him to this place.

Smith said something. Fang stared at him, uncomprehending.

“One hour,” Smith repeated.

“One hour till what?”

“We take the ship,” Smith said, and held up the GPS. Fang took it and squinted at it. “Here,” Smith said, and pushed a button which lit up the display. “When we hit fifty-nine degrees forty minutes north latitude, we take the ship. If we wait any longer, they’ll call for the pilot.”

“Pilot?” one of Smith’s men said.

“Every ship needs a pilot to get them into port. Someone who knows the local waters.” To Fang he said, “Tell your men to get ready.”

Fang was still squinting at the GPS. Fifty-nine degrees thirty minutes latitude, one hundred forty-nine degrees and thirty minutes longitude. He tried to imagine the nearest port to that location and came up with Anchorage, Alaska. What the hell were they doing here?

“Get ready,” Smith said, more sharply this time, holding his hand out.

Fang gave him the GPS and went to get his men suited up.